


A nickle for every miracle

by empires



Series: Collected Prompts [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Christianity, Demonic Possession, Exorcisms, Father Todd, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Scripture References, Supernatural Elements, Western, weird west
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: Father Todd continues his westerward journey to San Fransico, but call in the night pulls him north to the small town of Gordon's Rest. Will he discover what evil stalks this peaceful town? Find out on tonights thriling installment of the Father Todd Adventures!Salvation comes to all who believe!Written for the JayDick Week 3 prompt: Father Todd, where Jason is priest (i.e. like in flash-point)





	

**Author's Note:**

> there's religious imagery and biblical text woven into this fic. it also runs much longer than i expected.
> 
> shamelessly influenced by my love of westerns, my desire to write mag7 fic (watch that movie!), my high-swooing over jesse mcree, and the black crows. 
> 
> shot out to @pentapoda for helping me name the orders (which replaced jason’s guns)

Jason jerks to wakefulness, a verse hanging on his dry tongue. Clarity follows after the lead hot pain streaking through his body. When it fades, Jason recognizes the campfire’s quite bloom and the light of god’s creation spraying across the blue dome of night. He is alone in the desert, safe, although that’s sure to change.

Some wretched creature has just crossed into this world. Some infernal power has reached into the night and wrapped itself around Jason’s neck. His body aches from it, a low down chill that drives into the bone.

The sky changes to the north, clouds sweeping down into a thin funnel. It is the type of omen any man can read.

A storm is coming.

He climbs to his feet, sleep shedding from his body like water leaving behind purpose white hot in his chest.

 

* * *

 

Gordon’s Rest is the kind of town he’s seen far too many times during his western exile. It sits in the middle of a lush valley, a sad remembrance of civilization in its weathered exterior. Unbeknownst to its denizens, the dusty wood bears the taint of human failure.

Pausing his horse on the hill, Jason plucks the long hat brim up with his thumb as a man needs both eyes to better judge the work ahead.

Even at this distance, Jason senses the blight of corruption. It rises from the town like perishing red smoke beckoning the weak spirited. An officious stench lingers over the slow-moving tributary coiling around the town’s southern edge. There is stagnation in this place shown by the faltering movements of the four ponies pulling the Concord stage into the short thoroughfare. Together it demonstrates the presence of evil.

Two days, Jason guesses that’s how long until the breaking comes. The prognosis does little to reassure him for it seems that, alongside the horrors of heaven’s fallen host, Jason has come to fight Time itself. And that is the battle he’s lost too often as late. For a moment, his eyesight simmers between the present and the future, and he witnesses a great battle’s tide hung on precious seconds and town razed by cleansing fire.

He’ll live a dozen lifetimes in service to ensure such calamity never occurs.

Resolved strengthened, hammer blows against an anvil, Jason straightens in his saddle. Taking the small shift as permission, Teddy, his great stallion, steps forward in a spritely canter.

A single straight road bisects the collection of buildings that comprise the town. It boasts a saloon near the city’s entrance as well as a bank, a hotel, a sheriff’s office, a mercantile store, livery station and stables. The bones of new buildings spring up from across the square, possibly housing to help the tent city sprung near the river’s shore. A church towers over the street’s end. Its lime soaked doors are closed. Jason frowns, nudging his horse towards the small crowd on the raised wooden walkway.

He dismounts and hitches Teddy to the post. Hidden beneath the leather gloves, Jason’s palms itch, sensitive to the slow rot that sits above the town. It has settled into even the water trough from which Teddy rears backward, offended.

“Easy,” Jason says, deep voice soothing. He pats the strong neck until Teddy calms. “Like I’d leave you thirsting in this place.” He drags two fingers through the standing water. A prepared scripture rings from his mouth.

Slow, widening rings ripple across the water’s surface. Once the taint fades, the water becomes still again, and Teddy dips his head forward eager to drink.

With the water cleansed, Jason unhooks a small black case from Teddy’s back and climbs onto the shaded walkway.

The conversation surrounding the stagecoach passengers and the townsfolk quiet somewhat. They wouldn’t be the first to take in a black-clad figure with a pair of Open Top Colts slung to his hips and think trouble now lights their darkened doors.

A quiet tick touches Jason’s mouth. They wouldn’t be too far off. Best to put their minds at ease. Jason pulls the bandana from around his neck revealing the thick, white collar.

“Peace be with you,” he says tipping his hat in passing.

“And with you,” comes the reply from a young attendant who falters when Jason’s steely gaze snares him. “And with you as well, Father.”

Jason continues on the path, wood groaning beneath each boot step, until he reaches the sheriff's door. Like the other buildings, it has thin paned glass finely inlaid with golden paint. He raps his knuckles on the door before removing his hat and letting himself inside.

“Good afternoon,” says a dry voice from behind a wooden table. The sheriff is a hard-eyed man with white hair, a bristle mustache, and an unflappable air about him. Steady eyes roam over Jason’s becoming clear as they touch the collar. “What brings you to this town, Father?”

There are many things guiding Jason’s journey, but he settles on one. “Providence

“Providence you say?” The sheriff thumbs his mustache. “I’ve met quite some lawful men who said there’s no such thing.”

Jason sets the case on the floor. “You know who I am?”

“I know what you are,” says the sheriff, gesturing to the small seat. “A miracle man.”

He sits in the proffered seat, hands curled at his knees.“My name is Father Todd, and I’m not ashamed to say we might all be in need of a miracle. Tell me about this town.”

“The name’s Sheriff Gordon. There’s been a Gordon living in this valley near thirty years and in that time, we’ve prospered. Three years ago, Gordon’s Rest was merely a smudge on the maps of Nevada, a quiet stage coach stop marking the divide between the arid southlands and our timber rich hills.” Gordon’s face loses a bit of its stone-cast when speaking about the land.

“Gold, which sprung from the rivers and hills of this country, has helped it grow into a fine little town. We’ve managed to keep it our own, fair, honorable, god fearing.” Pride drains from the sheriff’s face filling the weary lines trepidation. “Until a few weeks back. Something strange started happening here”

“What kind of things?”

“It started with the mines. Sounds coming out of the earth, at least that’s what the miners said. Then the miners started to get sick. Now I know.” The sheriff begins, hands spreading to ward off protest. “That this is common in mines. It’s dangerous work, being so far underground, but they're not the only ones with complaints.  Cattlemen have come into town complaining of their stock bearing strange marks. A new illness has crept into town. The doctor and our preacher worked hard to heal our spirits. But….” Gordon’s voice trails. “But there are whispers in the dark now. The waters taste foul. People are afraid.”

Jason nods understanding that something still lingers in this town. The pain in the night, the coming storm, he feels it here. “If that’s the case, why is the church closed?” The way to God’s house should never be barred.

“The preacher’s boy fell ill a few nights ago. He’s attending to him at his home just up the ridge outside town.”

Three nights ago, Jason woke in the dead of night, but if evil has been seeping into the town for some time, it means Jason’s tasks will be much harder. It’s best he starts immediately to stave off calamity.

“It seems I’m needed in this town.”

“You may well be,” says the sheriff. He touches his mustache again, a thinking man’s tell. “If I may, Father, you seem to be a mite young for this. That is to say, the last miracle man I’d seen was nearly twice your age.” There’s a bend to the sheriff’s eyes, a smidgen of worry at the profession that marks Jason. In truth, it’s not the first time Jason’s been questioned about his experience.

“Whatever my hand finds, I do mightily or there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither I goest.” The scripture rolls heavy from his tongue. “Draw comfort from this, sheriff. I’ve more than enough weight on my soul to help this town,” he says, “If you’ll allow it.”

The sheriff wavers for a moment, but the moment passes, as will all things on the earth. “I shall.”

“Thank you, sheriff.” Jason stands. “Then I ask that you excuse me. There are a fair number of works to be done and I know my first act of service should be completed before sundown.”

The sheriff’s shrewd eyes narrow. “And what does the church charge for your services?”

Jason collects his case and sets his hat atop his dark head. “A bed for the night. A restful slumber should replace the strain the cold desert chill and the unyielding earth has placed upon me,” Jason says, feeling honest. “And a meal.”

 

* * *

 

It might’ve started before the war, perhaps all the way in the garden with the forked tongue of a fallen angel tempting innocence from the world, but the War Between the States invited new horrors to spur on the innate avarice, fear, and cruelty that festered in the Confederate heart.

Such evil has crossed the mighty Mississippi and spread across the plains like a plague. Humanity’s curse stains what was once a sacred land. And so the priests ordained by the cross, baptized in gunpowder, and burdened by precious truth continued as they did during the war and followed the fallen devils west.

Jason is one of those priests. A miracle men as told by the people who live to tell the tale. There’s a powerful purpose within him and he stalks unerringly, an arrow loosened from the bow, to the next soul. He’s been tested and tried and made to uphold the commandments if not abide for them. And Jason serves his purpose well.

With the sheriff’s permission secured, Jason goes down to the river. The corruption thickens here, not a source but a symptom. Clearing it is a simple task and will position him better for what faces him tomorrow.

First, Jason unbuttons the sleeves of his black coat and shirt, rolling them over his tanned forearms. Next, he builds a small fire from the cleanest bits of wood and straw grass he can find near the banks. He opens his small case after this, poking through the dozen compartments until he finds the silvery green sage and the bulb of a spring flower. He drops them within the fire and watches the flames fill cheerily. Once the clean scent rises in the smoke, Jason goes to his knees, head bowed, and he begins to pray.

When first invited to the seminary, Jason questioned the simple nature defining their order. The power of the cloth differ greatly from the magic of the world. They use ordinary tools. The salt of the earth and fragrant herbs pulled from the soil, the cold burn of iron and the warmth of strong hands. Scripture does not make clouds churn, prayer does not call forth divine light, yet change happens quiet like the turn of a page. He’s come to find that their power reflects the nature of good works. Small, unassuming when compared to the hustle and bustle of daily life, yet powerful like silence, comforting like a candle in the dark.

As did the water in the trough, the river ripples gently like a breeze skimmed the surface, and then it falls back to its gentle meander hugging the curves of its shore. He purifies the water, much to the amusement of the small audience that followed him from the sheriff’s office. The scent is gone, and while the onlookers may not quite notice, Jason bears witness to their every cleansing breath.

The people delight in miracles.

* * *

 

Sheriff Gordon finds him at the end of the walkway and says the hotel will provide him with a bed for two nights and three meals. Small blessings are like rain on the dry earth and Jason, who has been traveling for many days without the slightest comfort, is grateful.

Jason goes to secure his lodgings, and after giving his room a cursory glance, he heads to the tight wooden hall and asks for his supper. A priest needs food and rest to replenish same as any man.

He’s just taken the first bites of a fragrant bean stew, when the hanging door bans open. In flies a wild-eyed man dressed in a hasty fashion. His salt and pepper hair swishes about his head. His hands lift to cover his embarrassment when he catches sight of Jason’s curious eye. He says with a bit of a moan, “You are a miracle man? A member of the holy Order?”

Jason sets down the tin spoon. “I am.”

“Praises be,” he says, voice rising feverently. “Praises be. My name is Reverend Grayson and I need your help.”

The reverend struggles to compose himself, straightening his coat and wiping at his cheeks before coming to Jason’s table.

“What can I do for you, reverend?”

“I need you to save my boy.” The man yanks a small purse from his pocket and upends it onto the table. Coins spill onto the small table, gold, silver, polished to a brilliant luster. “Anything you need, you can have. Just please, Father, please save Richard.”

Jason’s eyes have yet to leave the man’s face, yet he finds himself looking deeper. Beneath the sallow skin, below the frantic thunder of his blood rests a kernel of faith. Small, yes, but true. “You’re this town’s preacher.”

The reverend nods cringing as if he wished it weren’t true. “Fair little it has done. Far smaller in faith am I who calls himself a son of the lamb.

“You’re wondering why I could not save my own son, is that right? You’re wondering if my god was right to abandon me to face the wickedness in my son alone.” Reverend Grayson’s face crumbles then, weariness tilling lines into his earthen face. “I couldn’t help him.” His breath hitches. “I swear to you, I tried. I tried because I know my boy is in there. He spoke to me. Sometimes it’s not him, but other times, I know. It’s Richard. _Richard_.

“Please. Save my boy.”

“Save him from what?” Jason questions the man for confirmation, for word of the inevitable.

“A demon,” whispers the revered. “A demon holds Richard’s soul in its unholy grip.”

* * *

 

Jason approaches the reverend's shed as a shadow cast over the dawning horizon. The wooden slats appear crooked and the roof sags. The nails are rusted and the surrounding grass is a withered bone white. Visible proof the corruption is indeed strong here.

From his pocket Jason draws a bag filled with remnants of yesterday’s cleansing fires. He circles the small building with the ash never questioning how it pours so smoothly. He takes three paces out and pulls out another sack. It's filled to the brim with salt, and like the ash, it does not run low. He alternates these circles outwards twice more before he’s satisfied. With the salt and ash sowed, Jason brings forth a scripture to consecrate this devil’s trap. And then he begins to pray.

For a miracle man, prayer is the solid ground worn over the bedrock of faith. True, it can be used in working, but pray is also a tool for meditation, communication, and guidance. Jason asks only that his heart be strong enough to guide him and his charge through this trying time and that his aim be true.

“Amen.”

The shed door opens with a shrill creak. Jason doffs his hat at the invitation. He walks carefully inside paying no mind to the door closing, the outside latch flipping trapping the world outside the door. Light filters through the oiled glass adding a haze to the gloom. Dust and flies swirl lazily in the corner and above the bed and its foul occupant.

The demon is awake.

It sits beneath the sweat-dampened covers amidst a cloud of defilement. It wears the boy well, bronze skin still taut, teeth white, a sly smile across its pink lips. The taint of possession fills the eyes with a putrid glow that clouds the entire iris like a swamp’s luminescent light.

The demon's laughter carries strains of hellfire.“Oh ho. They send a priest for me when the reverend fails. Will you be as weak, young father? Will you look upon this sweet flesh and fall? I think you’ll find—“

Jason draws, hands quick as lightning fanning the hammer one, two, three, four, five, six times. Six bullets fly towards the demon’s lying mouth.The body explodes backwards falling against the wooden slats with a bang.

He cocks the gun ejecting the spent casings and reloading with practiced ease. In the back of his head is a hard voice counting down, telling Jason to be faster, cleaner, _better_. The memory tickles up by unseen hands. He silences it with a smile. Let the demon search for a gap in his armor. He has none.

“But you do, peacemaker. You do.” The wretched voice crackles gramophone thin.

“You’re still here?”

It pulls itself up then, gnarled fingers scrabbling on the walls and cot, splintered laughter on its dry lips. It points to the five bullets suspend in a brittle vortex. The crystalline barrier protecting the demon cracks like glass and the holy bullets smolder.

“You think you can defeat me like that. I who have brought destruction onto the very dogs of hell.”

“Missed one,” Jason says, tilts his gun at the blood welling at its cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

It touches the face of its human host and gasps, pained. “You have marred this perfect vessel. What manner of priest are you?”

“An effective one,” he replies. “Be warned, demon, I am blessed with the power to cast out unclean spirits and to bring salvation to those in their darkest hour. You will not leave this shed.”

“That is not the way this goes! It is a bargain, peacemaker, a trade. That is what is written and the Word is what binds us all.”

“My word is simple. Leave.”

“I will have my time, priest.” It hisses the title like a curse. “And you will pay the price.”

He cocks his gun.

The demon flees in cloud of putrid scent. It rises from the bed, thick and noxious sulfur and sweet rot, and dissipates leaving behind the host.

Outside the sun climbs higher and its rays fall through the slit walls bathing the body.

Sun-drenched skin lusters pale by the sickness bubbling beneath the skin. His hair, lank and oily, frames a handsome face, pretty even despite the fear twisting his mouth into a dithering thing. His blue eyes shine iridescent with tears. Yes, Jason could see why a demon would afflict this young man. Because demons are like magpies, prideful and attracted to lovely things that glimmer in the light.

“Richard.”

“Yes. Yes.” The drowning gaze focuses on him. “Who are you? Where is my pa?”

“I’m Father Todd,” he replies. “Your father is at his church waiting for you. May I sit with you awhile?”

Richard nods dislodging a slow tear. “Yes, Father. Of course.” He laughs wearily. “Where are my manners? Please, sit with me. I am in need of a friend.”

“I can be such a thing.” Jason picks up the chair and settles it beside the bed. “Would you care for some water?”

“Water.” Richard’s voice cracks at the word. “Yes.”

Jason pulls waterskin from his belt and fills the tin cup by the table. He finishes a short recitation before setting it against Richard’s parched mouth. The young man looks shrunken from thirst, weak, and he’s unable to handle the air let alone metal, but he drinks solidly. Drains that little tin dry.

“Do you know what’s happening?”

Richard squints at him over the silver rim. His eyes fall closed, lashes brushing the perfect swell of his cheeks. “It was three nights ago. I woke with a start, feverish. Excited. It started.” He falters, blushing. “It started from a dream, but one I would not willingly have, Father.”

“Go on.”

“I wanted to go to my father but found that my body would not cede to my wishes. I could barely make my tongue move. I thought I was struck with illness, so I. I called for help.” Richard’s mouth trembles. “When my father came my body spoke with a voice that was not my own. I knew then. I was under a devil’s control. Is it. Is it gone, Father?”

“This is but a moment’s respite,” he says carefully, filling the tin again. “The demon has been made to expend its powers, but it still has a hold on this earth. It will return to for you.”

Richard shudders mightily from fear. The water sloshes from the cup. Richard shouts twisting in the sheets as the liquid bubbles along his skin. “It burns, Father. Please.”

Jason takes the tin back and whips out the red handkerchief from his pocket to mop the water from Richard’s hand and chest. He tears the wet underwear open and pats at the red trails sliding down his skin following it all the way down the dark grotto below his hips. Richard’s belly clenches and heaves. His face twists in agony.

“Why does it burn?”

“You are still in the grips of evil and this water is made to purify what is good and true. That’s what’s inside you.”

“And outside?”

“Sin,” he says shortly. The vagaries of lust roll from the bared skin, yet it is not all a glamour. Richard is certainly what many long for, but such spells hold no sway over him.

“Are you here to help me? My father. He tried. I could see but could not speak and it. It spoke to him with my voice.” Richard begins to tremble again. “The things it said. I cannot bear it.”

There’s no need to image the words a demon might use to unnerve, to break. Jason has witnessed it before, and he knows how depravity can rest within the mind. Saving Richard will be no simple task, yet it is already begun.

“Take my hand,” Jason says. "Together we will prayer.” A quiet smile touches his lips as Richard's hand takes his without hesitation.

And so Jason begins to pray, head bowed across their clasped hands. Richard’s fingers twitch weakly at first, but over time, his grip strengthens, his palm warms. And when the spirit moves within him, Jason takes out his bible, small and leather bound, and he begins to read passages to Richard. There are many that the young men know by heart and they pass verses back and forth like a flask over a campfire. Messages of strength, compassion, forgiveness, divine love through which all things are possible.

By mid-morning, Jason’s mouth feels dry, so he drinks from the clear waters and allows Richard some deep sips. Afterwards, he begins to sing. Richard joins on his next hymnal. Even thickened by uncertainty, strained by fear it is something to hear. Richard sheds quiet tears as he sings then apologizes for them. Jason tells him there is no reason to be ashamed and wipes away those tears with gentle hands.

“Will you sing me another?” He asks and Richard does.

He is a preacher’s son who knows all the words, and his voice might be the sweetest sound. Jason tells him as such when they pause, and he watches a blush light Richard’s dusky cheeks.

“My mother taught me,” he says, turning away from the priest’s persistent regard. “When my pa was just a traveling preacher. It was good. Simpler. I miss it. Her. That life."

Jason squeezes his hand. “Tell me about it.”

“It was different. My father was a revival man before we came to Gordon’s Rest. We’d perform for the people. Remind them of the wonders found in this earth. I met so many good people. And then my mother died.” The elegant lines of his mouth twists to sadness. “It was illness. We lost our way with her gone. Both of us without a light to guide us. I thought. I thought with her gone I should just give in to what I desired. And what I desire.” He shivers. "Father. I feel--No don’t!” Richard slumps into the pillow full wracking jerks cascading through his bod.

Jason hurries to uncap the tiny flask of oil and wets his thumb. He manages to draw the lines of the cross upon his brow when Richard jerks still. The mouth opens and a buzzing fly crawls forth followed by another and another.

The demon launches another attack for this body. A swarm of flies surrounds them beating their wings, crawling over their flesh. Jason is ready.

“And I will sever in that day the land of Goshen, in which my people dwell, that no swarms of flies shall be there,” Jason says steadily amidst the thunder of one-thousand wings. “I entreat the Lord that the swarms of flies may depart from this young man, his servants, and from his people.”

A soundless burst of air engulfs the shed. The flies struggle against it. The room heats, a cleansing light and their bodies burst like will o’ wisps on a summer’s eve.

He straightens Richard atop his bed again covering him with the light blanket and taking his hand again. He whispers, “Take heart my friend. You are far stronger than you realize.”

* * *

 

Just as the light of day strengthens Jason, the coming of night will fuel the demon’s power, and so Jason must make ready. He resumes his prayers after noon. The shed reaches a deep heat. Sweat rolls at his temples and between the cracks of their palm. He maintains the steady comfort of the written word as they sit in await of the evening.

Richard wakes thereafter. His face is lily white, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Father?”

“I am here.” He squeezes his hand. “I am with you.”

“I know. I heard your voice.” Richard smiles muzzily. “Felt like I was a long way from home, but if I followed your voice, it would get me back.”

“That is a kindness I hope you take comfort in though I know no one has paid me such a compliment before”

“Yes, well, it’s not like you were singing,” Richard says. “Your voice is dreadful.”

Jason pushes the hair from the young man’s face and smiles encouraging that pluck of spirit. “I was booted from the choir once. I expect the same when I reach the holy gates.”

“The church of the exorcists have a choir?”

“There is no one church of the exorcists,” he says meeting Richard's eyes. “But we are of a specific sets who comes together and go forth in the world under the church’s orders.”

“Which one are you?”

Jason cocks a brow, surprised by the question. “Pardon?”

“My father, he is a preacher. I’m sure you know. Knew about the Orders. Which one are you?”

The Orders should not be known by any who have not answered the call. Five orders, five stations, Confession, Contrition, Mercy, Iron Cross, and Salvation. Five ways to keep peace in the lands. Five ways to restore the balance in a soul. Five ways to save. If Richard knew the orders than he’ll understand Jason’s purpose. What he needs now is hope.

“The day grows long and you’re not yet cleansed. We should pray.”

“The prayer. What does it help?”

“It soothes your soul. It gives you hope. That’s what you need right now. Peace of mind, a calm heart, the strength of your convictions.” Jason holds his hand palm up. “Believe and this will pass.”

Richard hesitates. “Please. I just want to know.”

Jason offers a bleak smile. “I offer the miracle of Salvation. The world is vast and our numbers few, yet salvation will come to all who believe.”

The boy’s eyes grow wide, stunned.

“’Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to mankind by which we must be saved.’ There is no salvation on earth. I don’t want my body to be a part of heinous acts on this earth, but Father,” he sobs, a single tear sliding down his dirty cheeks. “I don’t want to die.”

The subject of death is something Jason can speak on with an honest heart. “There is nothing to fear in death,” he says. “For it calls an end to our sufferings. It takes us to an eternal joy. Do not fear it, Richard, for I will not let you fall to evil.”

Richard grows still beside him, his fingers weaken again. When he speaks, his voice is halting, haunted.

“You sit at my side. You anoint me with oil. You ask about me and my past as if to shrive me.” Richard’s eyes grow round with shocked realization. “Is this not the way of salvation or is this a deathbed vigil?” And though he’s sworn that no tears reside within him, Richard weeps taking Jason’s silence for an answer.

Yet there is no easy way, no path other than what is set before them. It is perhaps inevitable for Richard to die here, but life may well be his to endure. Faith might see him through. Jason begins to explain, but the despair is too great and Richard cannot hear him.

“I don’t want to die. That’s what’s going to happen here isn’t it, Father. The miracle you’re here to perform is to save me no matter the cost.”

“Give yourself to the demon and you will forfeit your soul. When you die, you will go to hell or travel in the unseen lands around earth praying for a miracle.”

Richard moans. “No.”

“How can I say anything but the truth? You know that it is real. Its presence infests you even now. It has promised you much here on earth, but what of eternity?” Jason watches the tired body wilt. “If you believe there is salvation. There is hope. There is life.”

“And if I don’t what do I have to look forward to. You bring with you the miracle of death. Salvation at all costs even the life of a wretched man.” Richard shaking hands lift to wipe the ears from his cheeks. “It’s bad. It’s bad either way.”

He'd witnessed such falls when he'd been only boy. The final hours of an exorcism are the hardest. “I reckon it might seem like it now when you are desperate. But do not loose heart. If you don’t die from my hands, you’ll die in its grip and that will be the end. Richard, do you hear me?”

Richard gasps, eyes shattered. “I don’t want to die.

“I don’t want to die.” Richard repeats the words over and over again voice rising each time until it sounds like a tempest. The beautiful music of his voice is lost and a howling laughter begins.

“Richard, listen to me. You must bear the truth or else your fears will consume you!”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Salvation is the promise of our Lord. There is power in his name. Call upon it and he will be with you.” Jason climbs to his feet while Richard’s body rises from the bed. He squeezes the limp hand in his. “I am with you.”

Richard’s eyes roll into his head, the slimy glow returning. “I don’t want to die!”

“Richard! Listen to me. Believe in me. Let me light your way!”

He’s interrupted by an unholy shriek as the demon forces tries to force its back inside its chosen vessel. Jason raises his hand, power invoked, and slaps him across the face. The preacher’s son falls with a thump. When the body rises, the demon has taken its place.

“Your pride is a weakness. To ignore the urge implanted in the human get. Go forth, be fruitful. Live. You who talked to this pathetic host did not come to the true kernel in its heart. It does not admit to its desires but come closer. I will show it to you.” The body twists into the sheets thigh spreading, mouth opening in a soft moan.

“You will leave this place.”

It laughs reaching for Jason and pulling him onto the bed with inhuman strength. Jason’s hat flies backwards and the demon seems to have a dozen hands each fighting to shame him, but Jason will not be shamed. He bears the rocking body beneath his knees and upends the rest of the holy water over Richard’s dark hair.

“You may have trapped me within the sun but I am still strong. This one fears death and I can promise him life. What can you promise him, priest? Not hope. Not with the secret he carries.”  Screams pour forth from its mouth. Richard’s voice. Richard’s protestations and pain.

The demon struggles beneath him twisting and bucking into his thigh.

“Feel that? Feel his desire? Feel his shame?” It laughs wildly. “Even trapped as he is the human craves the sin of the flesh. Your flesh. Will you give us a taste?”

Jason growls catching the hand pulling at his buckle and slamming it against the straw mattress. He holds himself over the writhing body and stares into the flickering eyes. Richard is there beyond the glow of evils light afraid but not alone.

“Yes, yes. Give me more. The humiliation, your presence, it sets fires within him. Don’t you see, peacemaker, it doesn’t matter if you take him or I do. This one is bound for hell!”

“Enough!” Jason shoves Richard into the sheets with one hand and begins speaking the Word of the lord. “I am here, Richard. I will see you through, but you must believe. Say these words in your heart.” And Jason begins to speak. “I speak to you oh God, my Redeemer, at your feet.”

The demon shrieks. “No! Stop!” But Jason will not stop. He pins the body to the bed with the Word and his knees for good measure. From his right hip he draws his sanctified weapon and places it against Richard’s chest.

“You will kill him rather than let me walk the earth? This is not the way!”

“I will save him,” says Jason. “Because he wants to be saved.”

“He does not want to die!”

“I ask forgiveness for all my sins. The guilt, strike it from my mind. The sorrow, lift it from my heart. Your love, let it anoint me and make me whole. I would make amends for that which offends thee, who art infinitely good. I would rather die than offend thee.

“There is a light inside of you, Richard. Let me protect it this one time. Trust in our lord and believe in me.” 

The hand in his tightens weakly. And Richard speaks in his own voice.

"I believe."

Jason stares into the bluest eyes and shares, if only for a moment, the fury and the pain, the will and the hope. The world around the darkens and the demon's voice rises, yet it is only a small thing. Jason is the light that will guide them home.

He pulls the trigger.

* * *

 

When standing amidst undeniable change, Jason can count on this thing to be true. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

He strikes out from Gordon’s Rest at the next sunrise astride Teddy’s back. A new traveler joins him. Once put to death in the body, made alive in the spirit, he is a miracle drawn from salvation.


End file.
